WITHIN THE ENEMY'S LINES A long cavalry cape concealing the British uniform I wore, my horse and myself were ferried across the Schuylkill, just below the mouth of Valley Creek, and there, amid the silence and darkness of the eastern shore, I parted with Hamilton, who had accompanied me thus far, whispering final words of instruction.

My horse was a fresh one, chosen from the stables of the Life Guard, but the trappings were of the British service.

Within five minutes I was out of sight of the picket fire on the river bank, riding steadily southeast through the night, every nerve alert.

An hour's riding found me well beyond our outermost pickets, yet, in fear that I might encounter some body of irregulars, scouting the neutral ground, I held on to my passport until I perceived the first flush of dawn in the east.

Then, convinced of close proximity to the British guard-lines, I tore the paper into fragments.